


here be dragons

by ossseous (ozean)



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Character Study, Childhood, Gen, Mother-Son Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:48:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27275212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozean/pseuds/ossseous
Summary: His mother once showed him the map of the city, her short nails scratching minutely over the fibers as she traced her way across city blocks and trolley stops, rounding corners and cutting through parks until she found her way back to their front door. There was a point to it: No matter what, if he had a map, he would always be able to find his way home.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	here be dragons

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally going to be part of a longer multi chapter piece, but I felt like it stood well on its own. Hopefully one day I will continue it.

If it was quiet enough, there was a specific sort of sound Quigley could hear when he shut his eyes.

The creak of the drafting table being tilted up. Or the gentle shuffle of paper unrolling. Or, most entrancingly, the sound of dry, callused hands sliding over said paper, flattening it out.

His mother once showed him the map of the city, her short nails scratching minutely over the fibers as she traced her way across city blocks and trolley stops, rounding corners and cutting through parks until she found her way back to their front door. There was a point to it: No matter what, if he had a map, he would always be able to find his way home.

It was a two part reassurance. His father wasn’t so worried--he carried his trust in his children like a well worn rucksack, bulging with sturdy faith and boundless confidence that his children were capable of doing anything they set their minds to.

It was more for his mother and more for him. It came after that time, when he was only six years old. It was his day to have alone with his mother--both their parents did it, so there was never a chance for one of the three to feel ignored and unloved by either of their parents. They would get a day with each of them, all to themselves.

That day they traipsed around the mall, exploring department stores like they were treacherous jungles of untamed wilderness. They hid behind mannequins dressed in the finest, innest-most clothes to be found, their binoculars out so they could zoom in on each and every scoff and eye roll they earned from annoyed customers. Then there was the music store, where they made sure to play a note on every single instrument that demanded, via sternly worded signs posted every two feet, not to be touched. Not to mention the ice cream parlor where they shared hazelnut gelato, all the while bobbing their heads along to the cheery, yet ancient sounding, song playing on the gritty, equally ancient sounding speakers.

It was when their day was nearly over, readying to head home for dinner, donning their coats to step out into the brisk winter air, when it happened. He still doesn’t even know how it happened, just that it did. That one second he was wrapping his scarf around his neck, trying not to smile too big and give away the fact that--judging from how warm he felt inside--he wasn’t so sure he even needed the scarf anymore. The next, she was completely gone.

Quigley wasn’t quite tall enough to see past the knobby elbows and bumping shoulders of the evening crowd making their way in after work. But each and every adult he looked at, tugging aimlessly at their sleeves, wasn’t her.

So he walked, not knowing where to go, he aimed for the nearest spot he could find, free of shopping bags whacking him in the back of the head, and free of all those painfully unfamiliar faces staring down at him in only the vaguest kind of unbothered concern that washed away the second he left their field of vision.

It was only when he felt the hot spill of tears dripping from his jaw, his hands shaking from their grip on the railing that he felt his arm pull back sharply, so suddenly he didn't even have the time to scream or even gasp.

It was his mother, her eyes wide as she crouched down in front of him. But instead of finding joy in them, his gut flipped as he found a look of horror greeting him, shifting only gradually into rage.

“Where did you go?” she bit the words out.. He shirked at the gritted anger that threatened to break through the clench of her teeth. He froze--entirely unsure what to do, what to say, what he could possibly think up to fix whatever it was that had so quickly managed to ruin their day.

But before Quigley could say a word, the anger dissipated like milk in tea, and she yanked him into a hug. Her arms wound around him so tight he thought he might not be able to get away, even if he wanted to.

But he didn’t want to. He buried his face in her neck, let the overwhelming relief spill out of him in a sob.

“I thought I lost you,” she whispered.

I thought I lost you too, he didn’t whisper back.

A few days later, she ushered him into her study where the oak always smelled heavy of bourbon and cigars and lavender. The books towered over him, not a window in sight but for the sliver of light that managed to peak out from between two sets of shelves on the verge of buckling under the weight of all those books.

“Sit here.” She patted a metal stool, the bolts squeaking under his weight as he settled in the spot. A firm hand gripping his shoulder, she said, “Now close your eyes.”

He did. He found the darkness hardly different from the natural darkness of the study. But a lamp clicked on somewhere, a crank--desperately in need of oil--grinded against gears, and the smell of old paper wafted over him.

“Now you can open them.”

The sudden flood of a yellow light blinded him at first, but as his eyes adjusted, he saw his mother had relocated her Emeralite lamp to a nearby shelf, the light casting down to illuminate a drafting table, tilted at just the perfect height to accommodate his reach.

And fixed under the clamps sat a map to the city.

"Remember this," she said. Her finger tapped against the block their home sat on, the pad of her finger covering the tiny drawing of their home. "Memorize it. Memorize every map you read. If you do, you can always find your way home."

* * *

And when he surfaces from the cold brine of a frothing ocean, hacking salt from his throat and desperately--tiredly treading water against insurmountable swells that desire only to claim him, he thinks only how he wishes there was a way to map the ever-changing topography of a hungry sea.


End file.
